dragonspell: (Default)
dragonspell ([personal profile] dragonspell) wrote2010-11-08 09:53 pm

Fic: SPN (Sam/Dean): Close Your Eyes and Pretend | R | 1150 words

Title: Close Your Eyes and Pretend
Author: [livejournal.com profile] dragonspell
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Warnings/Spoilers: Vague spoilers for aired episodes of season 6
Summary: It’s Sam’s body underneath him but it’s not really Sam that’s looking up at him.
Word Count: 1150


It’s Sam’s body underneath him but it’s not really Sam that’s looking up at him. Intellectually, maybe, sure—but there’s something missing in the vaguely concerned look that Sam is giving him. It’s like Sam knows that there is something that he should be understanding, that he should be feeling, picking up on, but he just can’t grasp what that something could be. So it makes his vague concern look a little like a scientist studying a specimen.

Dean’s not sure if he can take it. So he looks away and grabs the half empty bottle off the nightstand.

The liquor burns like fire, searing down his throat, licking at his insides with all the gentleness of broken glass. Dean grimaces and decides that he just might need another, so he tips the bottle back again and swallows the last of it, draining it dry. It’s cheap rot gut—bottom shelf because at the pace he’s been going lately, that’s all he can afford—but it usually gets the job done. Anything to keep his mind off of how his life has been going for the past, oh, twenty-six years or so.

Some days it just works better than others.

Today is not one of those days: Dean is all too well aware of what’s going on and what’s happening and just how helpless he is against any of it. How useless, how pathetic. The liquor’s just not working like it should. Sam’s still staring up at him with his distantly puzzled eyes because even he knows—as fucked up as he is—that something’s wrong.

Dean waits a few beats for Sam to comment about his drinking, about the fact that he just consumed more than should be wise—that he was sacrificing his hunter instincts, something—but there’s nothing but silence. Of course there is. Dean shoves his fingers into Sam’s mouth, Sam’s lips parting easily, because at least this way Dean can pretend that the only reason why Sam’s not saying anything is because Dean won’t let him. Dean gets the illusion of being able to pretend.

There’s nothing that Dean can do to fix this and he knows it. Nothing at all. Even his usual medication is failing him.

It’s not like Dean wanted to hear about it anyway—Sam’s lectures. He doesn’t—not tonight. Not ever but especially not tonight.

Tonight, he’s all too well aware of just how fucked-up they—how fucked they are. He’s all too well aware that it’s probably his fault. It always is.

He never should have gone to Lisa like he did. Stupid, sad, and clingy. Weak. He ruined the only good thing that he had left—tossed it out with the trash just like the rest of his life. He should have known better but, of course, he’d given in. He’s always given in.

Sam would just tell him something inane, anyway. Either that or something that Dean doesn’t want to hear. These days, Sam’s all about the self-interest and it’s just so jarring, that Dean can’t take it anymore. It gets in the way of his pretending.

Intellectually, Sam’s still there. Dean knows that he is, but morally, emotionally—all the things that made Sam Sam—he’s not. Sam’s gone somewhere, locked away where Dean can’t help him and all Dean’s left with is this hollow shell that is his brother but isn’t. Just another way that Dean fucked up. Sam never should have had to go alone into the pit: Dean should have been tumbling in right after him.

A couple hundred years of being tortured by the worst Hell had to offer would be better than this. This, though, is all they have. He should have known that there’d be yet another way of being fucked-over. Just when Dean dares to let himself think that he’s finally hit bottom, that there’s no way that life could get worse, he’s proven wrong. You’d think that he’d learn.

Because this is Sam’s body underneath him. Those are Sam’s eyes staring up at him and those are Sam’s lips wrapped around Dean’s fingers and that’s Sam’s cock that’s buried inside of him—but it’s not Sam and the fifth of whiskey isn’t helping make that fact any blurrier. His mind is disgustingly, brutally clear for the amount he’s drunk tonight. Maybe that means that he should quit—he’s building up a tolerance.

Or maybe it just means that he should plan to drink more. Next time, he’ll buy a few extra. There won’t be any running out, then. It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice, either, that he’s already drinking more than his father ever did. So much for trying to be a better person—whatever that means. Yet another thing that Dean should have known better about: his father could have held out against Hell for the rest of eternity. Dean had caved after only thirty years. Thirty years and he’d had enough but his father had never cracked.

Shouldn’t have even tried.

Sam’s tongue licks at Dean’s fingertips, his mouth sucking, and Dean shudders as Sam’s big hands grab a hold of his hips and angle them just right as Sam thrusts up. Intellectually, Sam is all there. He knows exactly what he needs to do. That knowledge just doesn’t help Dean any. Sam’s hands force Dean into a harder rhythm, a faster one—more driving, more demanding—steadying Dean as he starts to tilt to the side and Dean’s eyes flutter closed.

Might as well enjoy it.

He’d tried telling Sam no tonight—thought about it at least. He’d considered trying to shove him away. It just hadn’t worked all that well because, intellectually, Sam’s still there but, intellectually, there is no reason for Sam not to force the issue. Dean doesn’t know if Sam would or not, but he’s hinted about it before—not threatening, just coldly, distantly matter of fact, just like how Sam is nowadays—and Dean doesn’t want to know for sure. He doesn’t want to know if what would happen if he told Sam no. He doesn’t want to know if Sam would let it go like he should or if he…wouldn’t.

At least this way, if Dean closes his eyes, he gets to pretend. Because it’s still Sam’s body underneath Dean and it’s Sam’s familiar touch skating over Dean’s body and, as long as Dean doesn’t look, it’s Sam that’s fucking him. Dean needs that. With the clusterfuck that has been their lives lately—“their” because Dean knows that him and Sam are intertwined together now and forever—Dean needs that. He’ll come with Sam’s name on his lips and the fruitless wish that it’s all just been one bad dream. And, for a little while, as long as Sam doesn’t open his mouth, Dean will feel better because a little denial can go a long way.

It is, after all, the family tradition.


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